Doctor Who_ Bunker Soldiers - Martin Day [38]
‘Adviser Yevhen?’
‘What of him?’ What appeared to be the senior figure paused for a moment, as if checking that he and his companion were not observed. ‘He has had his turn to save the people of Kiev.
He seems only to have brought more destruction to us.’
‘But you allowed him to proceed?’
‘I decided I could not stand in his way. His failure underlines the importance of our own... negotiations.’ I saw the man turn his head in the direction of the mysterious figure and the men who were escorting him.
‘How do the negotiations go?’ queried his companion.
‘They go well, but slow. We struggle to find common ground in language, still yet of faith and philosophy.’
‘But the Tartars’ – my ears pricked up at the abrupt use of the word – ‘will help us with the southern problem?’
‘I believe they will. And the Church of God, united by this threat, will amply reward any who help us.’
‘Even these devils that sweep across Russia?’
‘We are all tools of the Lord.’ With that, the senior figure turned away. ‘I have much to attend to.’
They disappeared inside the cathedral, and I wondered if, unwittingly, I had just had my first encounter with Bishop Vasil.
There were smaller doors, to the side of the great arched entrance, and I decided I would try these. They were, of course, open – it wouldn’t even occur to the people of Kiev to think of making off with one of the icons, or stealing and melting down the great golden candle-holders or incense-burners.
I stepped quickly inside, and found myself in an enormous cold space where every footstep rang out like gunfire. At first, only my nose gave me any information at all – the musty, sweet smell of ancient incense. Then my eyes grew more accustomed to the mother-of-pearl light that was admitted by the coloured windows and punctuated by one or two lit candles that trailed a path to the great altar. I followed nervously in the footsteps of the faithful, all too aware of my booted feet rapping on the flagstones.
I was about half-way towards the altar when I heard voices whispering. I ducked down between the pews, and listened keenly. They seemed to be following my path from the main door towards the altar, but I dared not turn towards them. Far better to remain where I was, I reasoned, and, in any case, I recognised who was speaking.
It was Yevhen and Olexander.
‘Should we be a little less brazen?’ asked the old man, articulating a question that had occurred to me. (The other was even more simple: what was Olexander doing with Yevhen, of all people?)
‘I was less brazen,’ replied Yevhen, ‘and still a man died. In any event, I believe my actions have Vasil’s approval.’
‘He has told you this?’
‘He has intimated as much. He is not interested in standing in the way of my plans – any more than I am interested in his.
He is a fool. He thinks more of Constantinople than Kiev!’
‘He would not be the first in our city to do so,’ whispered Olexander. ‘I’ll warrant he may not be the last.’
They passed by me at this point, more interested in their whispered conversation than the man crouched to one side of the great aisle. They came so close I could have reached out to touch them.
Both carried torches, held at about waist height. Olexander, trapped now only in the hunched prison of his ancient body, was clearly recognisable, and Yevhen’s haughty bearing was unmistakable. The adviser strolled through the cathedral as if he owned it. Even so, they continued to whisper – for all Yevhen’s confidence, I surmised that he would prefer to go about his business undisturbed.
I tentatively followed the two men, carefully placing my feet on the cold stone floor, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of revealing my presence. I kept just close enough to hear any further dialogue between the men, but neither now said a word.
I was still shaken by Olexander’s release from prison. Of